The Dark Side of Light
by LuckyEight
Summary: A tortured and maddening soul takes the war against Voldemort upon himself. OoTP spoilers, takes place after Harry's 5th year (though he and his friends will most likely make no appearance in this fic.) R to be safe, violence mild language. Please RR.


"You pathetic fool," spat Heras Bruccio, his face twisted into a cruel grin as he pointed his wand at a body warped and contorted with pain. "You dared to ignore the summons of the Dark Lord, and now you pay."  
  
The mans mouth opened and shut though no words came out, only a low moan as Bruccio pointed his wand, mercifully, away; a brief respite from the agony of the Cruciatus Curse.  
  
"Have you so quickly forgotten your vows as a Death Eater, old friend? Is that why you married this mud-blood bitch?" Bruccio sneered at the woman huddling and sobbing in the corner as she cradled her young son.  
  
"Well no matter," Bruccio said, flicking his wand once more in the traitorous Death Eater's direction. "Once I am finished with you, I will make their deaths as long and painful as yours."  
  
"No!" is all the man got out before Bruccio began to once more cast the Cruciatus Curse.  
  
"Cru-" is all Bruccio got out before another finished calling out, "Expelliarmus."  
  
Bruccio's wand flew from his hand, and before he could finish processing what had just happened, there was a crack of broken glass and the lights blinked out, leaving the room in darkness.  
  
"Dammit!" Bruccio cursed into the inky veil that had been thrown over his eyes. "Who's there?" he demanded, panic creeping into his voice.  
  
A sinister chuckle seemed to come from right behind him, and he whirled, flailing his arms in the direction. The laughter only increased, but this time seemed to come from everywhere at once.  
  
"'Tis only I, Death, come to take your life away," said the man in a sing- song voice. "But I suppose you probably would not know about me. I am more of a muggle sort of thing." He laughed again.  
  
"Coward!" Bruccio screamed into the pervasive darkness. "If you've come here to kill me, you'll give me my wand and we'll duel!"  
  
"Me duel you?" the voice whispered into his left ear. Bruccio lunged toward the voice.  
  
"You do not deserve the honor of a duel!" the voice shouted, from everywhere once again. "You are the one deserving the title of 'coward!' You who hide behind the might of your so-called Dark Lord! Have you forgotten that he too is a mud-blood? Or do your convictions fail when your own life is in jeopardy?"  
  
"You are naught but an animal," the voice rasped into his right ear, and again Bruccio lunged. A strangled yelp of pain tore from his throat and that cold, vindictive voice muttered, "Lumos."  
  
In the dim light of the wand's glow he saw a horrible, white face grinning at him, its eyes a shimmering silver that reflected his own pained expression back at him. And then he looked down to see the sword that he had just impaled himself upon. His last conscious thought was that the grinning face was indeed a suitable manifestation for death.  
  
The man drew his sword from the swiftly dying Death Eater and turned to the man lying on the ground.  
  
"Th-thank-"  
  
"Do not thank me yet, for you have shared this man's crimes," he snarled, his tone dripping loathsome disdain.  
  
You however," the ghoulish man leered as he pointed his wand at him, "I shall at least give a wizard's death. Avada Kedavra!"  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
"Good evenin', Logos. What can I get for ya?"  
  
"A glass o' fire whiskey oughtta set me right, Tom," said a portly wizard as he precariously mounted his considerable bulk on one of the Leaky Cauldron's spindly barstools. "Ah good as ever, Tom," he grinned after taking a swallow of the drink.  
  
"So, er - how's business?" he asked looking around the uncommonly vacant pub.  
  
"Well, I s'pose I can't complain," Tom shrugged as he poured a butterbeer for his only other customer. "But all this business with You-Know-Who that's goin' around is no help."  
  
"Aye, I imagine not. Do you reckon its all true? It's hard to take the Daily Prophet seriously much as they contradict themselves."  
  
"Oh it's true alright," replied Tom seriously, a grim look on his face. "I've known Dumbledore fer longer than I can remember, an' if he says You- Know-Who's back, then mark my words, he's back."  
  
"Yeah, I suppose so," Logos agreed reluctantly. "I guess no one really wants to believe it, but better safe than sorry. Especially when it comes to You-Know-Who."  
  
Tom grunted his agreement and poured Logos another whiskey. "By the way, did ya see today's edition of the Prophet?"  
  
"Nope. Why? Did somethin' happen?"  
  
"You could say that," said Tom, and he leaned in almost conspiratorially. "Nasty set of murders. Ministry officials say one dead from the Death Curse, and the other, now this is the strange part mind you, he was stabbed! They reckon it was a sword wound seein' as it went from his stomach all the way through to his back."  
  
"That's strange alright," Logos said in a distant voice, an odd expression on his face. "Did it happen to say who the victim's were?"  
  
"Sure did, and that's a strange thing too. One was Marcus . something, a ministry chap I guess. And the other was Heras Bruccio, and they say he was one of You-Know-Who's supporters back when he was still powerful. In fact both of 'em had the Dark Mark on their arms." Tom stood up straight again, a bemused look on his face. "Odd isn't it? You don't really expect two of his crowd to turn up dead in mysterious circumstances."  
  
"Strange indeed," Logos half-muttered, a thoughtful expression etched in his face. Snapping out of his reverie in a flash he finished the rest of his fire whiskey, bid Tom a hasty farewell, and exited into Diagon Alley.  
  
He wound his way as quickly as he could manage through the crowds of shoppers, though they were far less numerous than was usual for a warm, summer evening.  
  
After a ways he turned off into Knockturn Alley and the crowds all but disappeared. Indeed the only signs of life in the otherwise deserted alley was a bent and hobbling old witch with a sneer on her face as she made her way out of a shop selling a sinister-looking array of magical objects.  
  
After a short couple of minutes he stopped, peering up at the sign of a dusty looking shop, huffing slightly from his brisk trot from the Leaky Cauldron. The sign bore a painting of a flask with a large, black X on its label and it was inscribed with the words:  
  
Nuada's Apothecary  
Potions Rare & Powerful  
  
With a final deep breath he pulled open the door and walked into the dim and musty shop. The room was not large but every inch of wall space was lined with shelves which in turn were home to thousands of bottles of potions organized into no apparent order.  
  
In the middle of the room a countertop enclosed a small area with a register and glass cabinets holding various items used for potion-making. In the center of the enclosed area a rickety, metal spiral-staircase led to floors above and below the shop level, and coming from the level below a man climbed slowly up the stairs.  
  
He was a tall man, and lanky with an angular look to him. His body, narrow at the waist, broadened at the shoulders so his heavy cloak hung oddly around his body. His face too had a triangular shape too it with a broad and high forehead and narrow, pointy chin.  
  
Completely bald, his skin was pulled tightly over his face and was a brilliant white. The effect was that his head resembled a sun-bleached skull, cold and menacing. His eyes even, were sunken and hollow looking, though an odd gleam could be seen flashing from their sockets if he looked at you in just the right manner.  
  
In fact, the iris' and pupil's of his eyes were like mirrors, reflecting the images of whatever he gazed at. No natural things were these eyes, but the by-products of one of his many personally concocted potions, one which gave him the ability to see in the dark as well as he could see in light.  
  
As the man reached the top of the stairs he looked up at his visitor and a smile parted his thin lips, revealing lips that matched perfectly the tone of his skin.  
  
"Dear Uncle Logos," he greeted, his voice a deep rasp. "I have been expecting you.  
  
"I daresay you must have, Shyam" huffed Logos, trying, with little success, to look reproachful. "What with all the stuff that's being printed in the Prophet."  
  
Shyam merely continued to stare at him for a moment, with that odd, amused smile playing across his face. Suddenly, he spoke, "Come. I'll make tea and you can say all that you think you need to say." With that he turned back towards the rickety stairway, and this time climbed them to the room above the cluttered, little shop. 


End file.
